by Pamela Morsi
Laron took a healthy swig before answering sarcastically. "It is liquor, my friend, strong drink, la boisson. A particularly fine product made from homegrown Acadian corn."
Rising to his feet was not as easy as Laron had anticipated and he fell forward. Armand caught him roughly.
"You're as drunk as a robin eating chinaberries!" he exclaimed.
"No robin has ever been this drunk," Laron told him.
It might well be true. When Laron had left Helga's farm he had been stunned, numb, in shock. He'd spied Karl, hurrying home with a stringer full of fish, and the reality of what was happening seeped in. The boy called out to him, showing off his catch. Laron had managed a nod of pride, but had not spoken. He had simply boarded his pirogue and headed down Bayou Tortue, his thoughts in a whirl.
He would never again share a quiet moment with the boy. He would never again tease Elsa. He would never again hold little Jakob in his arms. And he would never again feel Helga beneath him, breathless and quaking as he pushed her over the edge of pleasure and felt the spasms of her body clutching at his own.
He'd gone directly from Helga's farm to the Bayou Blonde. The Bayou Blonde was a rough and wicked place where the dregs of Acadian and Creole society consorted with low-life Americaines and escaped slaves, consumed strong drink, and gambled away their livelihood. He didn't know how many days he'd stayed there. He didn't remember how he'd managed to make it home.
"You always said you hated the taste of alcohol," Armand reminded him.
"I still do, my friend," Laron agreed. "I still do. I hate the taste, but I love the oblivion."
"Come on," Armand said, wrapping his arm around his friend's waist.
"No, I can't move," Laron moaned. "I can't move. I can't walk. I don't think I can live."
"Well, you are damned well going to have to," Armand insisted.
Laron was nearly twice the weight and an ax handle's length taller than the man who supported him, but Sonnier managed to drag him out of the barn and down toward the river. They stumbled along together with Armand talking constantly, his words part encouragement, part castigation.
"Liquor doesn't solve anything," his friend told him. "It merely makes you behave foolishly and causes your family to worry. Keep moving now, you can do it. It's a good thing your father's no longer alive. He'd probably still think to take a strap to you for this."
Laron concentrated merely on staying upright and keeping his stomach from heaving.
When they reached the bank Laron knelt expecting to splash his face with cool water. Instead, Armand dunked him, head and shoulders, into the river. Laron came up sputtering and then did lose the contents of his stomach.
Armand dumped him in the cold water again, this time almost to his waist.
"Are you trying to drown me!" Laron sputtered, his hair plastered to his head.
"It's an easier way to die than drinking yourself to death," Armand told him. "Your sister was frantic when I spoke with her. She sent her husband to Bayou Blonde to fetch you. What on earth were you doing there?"
"I can't seem to remember."
Laron collapsed on the ground. The cool grass against his back and the rich fragrance of damp earth somehow soothed him. It was the middle of the day, the sun was high, but the chill in the air kept it from warming the wetness of his shirt. His own smell assailed him and it was extremely unpleasant. His life was extremely unpleasant.
"I'm going up to your sister's house to get some coffee," Armand told him.
"I can go with you," Laron assured him, attempting to stand although the ground swayed dangerously when he had risen only to his elbows.
"Don't bother," he answered, pushing Laron back down on the grass. "It's too far for me to drag you. Besides, I don't know who is up there now. And I'm sure your sister wouldn't want her children to see you this way."
"Oh no," Laron agreed. He was sure his friend was right. His straight-laced Boudreau parents had never allowed liquor in their house and Laron and his brothers had been warned against it on many occasions. He was fairly certain that the Hebert household, his sister's home, was equally intolerant.
"I'll be right back," Armand said.
"Fine."
"Don't roll over and fall in the river."
Actually that sounded like a pretty good idea to Laron.
"Just get the coffee," he answered.
As his friend hurried off, Laron lay still in the grass. He tried closing his eyes, but the spinning grew worse. He gazed up at the gathering clouds in the blue sky above him. It was a beautiful day. The kind of day made for weddings—or maybe funerals.
He folded his arms across his chest like a corpse and imagined himself laid out on slats. Of course, this time of year, cool as it was, his family would probably still be able to keep him in the house. He'd rather be outside, he decided. If he waited to die in summer he could have that advantage. But was it really worth waiting that long? His life was over already.
Bayou Blonde had been wilder, dirtier, more pathetic than he'd been led to believe. There was gambling. But he hadn't bothered. He didn't have much money and what he had he'd spent on liquor.
There had been a woman, a woman with big dark eyes and a front tooth missing. She'd said he was "so pretty" she would let him do it for free. She'd changed her mind after he'd vomited on her skirt.
Helga! The name repeated in his mind. Helga no, don't send me away.
He had thought himself so worldly. He had his life, his plans; and he had his German widow. He'd known from the beginning that his illicit liaison with Helga could never last. Then he had so callously, thoughtlessly, become involved. He knew eventually he would have to leave her. He would have to marry. He'd even settled on whom and when. Had he thought that it would be so easy? Had he thought his heart was not involved?
Somehow he hadn't truly thought that he would have to do without her. Perhaps he secretly imagined that she would still welcome him when another woman shared his name. Perhaps he believed that her love for him would override all other considerations. Perhaps that belief had made it possible to affiance himself to Mademoiselle Gaudet.
He shook his head at his own idiocy and then moaned with pain. He should have known better. Helga was as sweet and as worldly wicked as a woman could be. But she was also, in her own heart, as duty bound and decorous as his own mother had been.
His mother? The image came to him of his mother sitting so primly in front of the fire, speaking of her husband as Monsieur Boudreau, never as lover or husband, but more as a gentleman with whom she had a respectful acquaintance. And he remembered his father standing in the pirogue explaining to his two youngest boys about the facts of life, and looking unhappy and uncomfortable. Surely those two shared nothing of the sensual magic that was part and parcel of his relationship with Helga Shotz. His mind rebelled at the thought.
Still, it could not be overlooked that his parents had managed to produce fifteen children in a marriage of twenty-seven years. Such did not occur by keeping distance from each other.
Was it possible? Was it possible that his parents had loved as he loved? Was it possible that they might have understood why he did not want to live without Helga at his side?
"Sit up." The order came from Armand. "Your sister has sent a whole pot of petit noir," he said.
"Good, good," Laron said, forcing himself up off the ground. "I have made a mistake drinking so much."
"Well you certainly have the right of that," Armand agreed.
"A man must have a clear head when he makes momentous decisions."
Laron's hands trembled so much, Armand had to help him bring the cup to his lips. The coffee was hot and dark and aromatic. It did not have the potency to truly clear his head, but it did have the power to make him believe it had.
"I love her," he said to his friend after he'd successfully downed the first cup.
"Your sister?"
"No, I mean, of course, but . . . but I love Helga."
Armand's brow fur
rowed. "The German widow?"
"I love her, Armand," Laron declared. "And I am going to marry her."
"My friend, the liquor steals your good sense," Armand said. "The woman is already wed."
"I don't care," Laron answered.
And he didn't.
Armand braced himself in his high position out on the limb of a big cypress. He extended his arm to reach as far as possible. The hook on the end of the long pole that he held caught a big clump of greenish-gray Spanish moss.
Below him, balancing himself with one foot on either edge of the pirogue's sides, Jean-Baptiste reached the lower hanging bits and maneuvered the boat into place.
With expertise, Armand eased his catch off the end of the pole, causing the moss to fall directly onto the growing pile already stacked in the pirogue.
"I'd like to know," he hollered down at his brother, "why, after all these years, I am still in the tree and you are still in the boat."
Jean Baptiste grinned up at him and laughed. "You should not ask me, but Father Denis or Madame Landry," he answered. "Everyone knows the smaller man climbs the tree. Whether it is, as Father Denis would say, 'God's will' or as Madame Landry would believe, 'your destiny,' the fact is, my brother, that you are shorter than I. And unless a gator comes to chew my legs off, you will always be so."
Armand glanced up and down the river and shook his head. "Where are those gators when you need them?"
Gathering moss was an important side business for the brothers. Long ago people had discovered that the spindly hanging swags were perfect for pillow fluff and mattresses filling. Mixed with mud the moss created a house plaster called bousillage that was strong, easy to work, and made good insulation. But most often it was gathered in large quantities and floated downriver to Creole and American factories that used it for upholstery stuffing. The demand for this cash crop was greater and more profitable than for their cotton or corn.
Now that winter was nearly upon them, the cattle and hogs already loosed to take care of themselves and the harvest put by, the Sonnier brothers had time to devote to piling moss.
"I'm littler than Uncle," Gaston declared from his perch atop the moss. "I should be up in the tree."
"And so you should," Armand agreed. "Jean Baptiste, hand that farmer up here."
Laughing, the elder Sonnier hoisted his young son up to the first big branch of the cypress. Armand moved lower to join the child. His knee-length shapeless dress hampered the boy's natural climbing ability.
With the pole in his right hand, Armand locked his legs tightly around the tree limb and wrapped his left arm around Gaston's waist, holding the little fellow securely to his chest.
"Are you afraid?"
The little boy looked down at his father several feet below.
"Your uncle Armand won't let you fall," Jean Baptiste assured him. "But even if he did, Poppa will always be here to catch you."
Armand felt the child's little body relax.
"It's pretty high up here," Armand said.
The little boy looked around, getting his bearings. "I like it," he said finally. "I like climbing trees and this is the biggest tree I have ever climbed."
Armand grinned at him and kissed the side of his brow.
"Being in the tree can be very wonderful. Look how far downstream you can see."
Gaston craned his neck.
"How far away do you think that is off there?"
The little boy shook his head in wonder.
"Perhaps we can see as far as La Pointe or Vermilionville. Do you think we can see as far as the bay?"
The boy squinted off into the distance. "I don't know," he admitted.
Armand smiled at him, pleased. "Shall I show you how to use the pole?" he asked.
Gaston nodded.
He had the boy grasp the pole just below Armand's hands. "Just ease it out," he said. "Get it just into the center of the swag and then gently pull back."
The two managed to hook a good-sized piece. Carefully they brought it around until it hung high over the pirogue. Then with a twist of the wrist, it fell into the towering heap that already heavily loaded the boat.
"I did it!" Gaston cheered himself loudly.
Both adults made the proper congratulations.
"I can gather moss just like you and Poppa," he declared proudly.
"My father, your grandpere, used to gather moss in this bayou. Maybe from this very tree," Armand told him.
"Truly?"
Armand nodded. "And someday you and Pierre will gather moss here, too, just like we do today."
"Me and Pierre?" Gaston was skeptical. "Pierre's just a baby."
"But he will grow up just like you will," Armand said. "And you two will be farmers like your father and I. And you will do things together and help each other because you are brothers. That is what brothers do. And the difference in age won't seem like anything important at all."
Gaston accepted that idea thoughtfully. "I'll be the big brother, like Poppa. So I will stand in the boat to get the ones hanging low."
Armand shrugged. "Maybe so. But you can never tell who will grow to be biggest."
"Oh I will," Gaston assured him. "I want to be tall like my poppa."
The two looked down at Jean Baptiste, who was smiling proudly.
"It's a good thing to be a big man and strong," Gaston said.
"It's a good thing to be happy with whoever you are," Armand told him.
"Uncle Armand, are you happy being small?"
Armand looked at the boy for a long minute and then leaned closer as if to put a secret in his ear.
"I get to climb the trees," he whispered.
The pirogue was low in the water as the Sonniers made their way home. With the weight of the moss it took both of them to pole the huge craft. Armand took the fore and Jean Baptiste the aft. They moved in unison aiding the pirogue on its downstream journey and keeping it within the deepest channel where it would not snag up on some unseen debris.
Young Gaston slept soundly, peacefully atop the heap, even though it was only noon. They had risen at dawn to complete their task before the heat of the day.
"How is Laron?" Jean Baptiste asked, breaking the contemplative silence.
Armand sighed heavily. "I don't really know."
"His family was very surprised and upset about his running off to Bayou Blonde."
"The German widow has bid him pass no more time with her," Armand said. "He is taking it very hard."
Jean Baptiste shook his head.
"It is for the best though," Armand continued. "She was why he was so hesitant to wed. Now he can go ahead, begin his life, have his family as he's always planned."
"Yes, he should get on with his life. He will forget the German soon enough. A beautiful young woman like Aida Gaudet could make any man forget the past," Jean Baptiste said appreciatively. "Even a past with one that he thought he loved."
Something as cold as fear and as hard as stone settled in Armand's chest.
"So have they pushed up the wedding date?" Jean Baptiste asked.
"Not yet. Laron is not yet reconciled."
"What do you mean he's not yet reconciled?"
"He still thinks to have the widow” Armand answered.
"How can he do that? She is widow in name only."
Armand sighed heavily. "He cannot. He doesn't accept it, but of course he will. He will have to."
Jean Baptiste nodded.
The last few days with Laron had been difficult ones. His friend was just becoming impervious to reason. He was going to have Helga Shotz and no one else.
Armand's own guilt about this multiplied innumerably. It was he himself who had first suggested this idea, after all. It was he who had said that perhaps Laron could be happy merely living with the woman that he truly wanted. He had spoken from his own heart, selfishly. Now he feared to reap the harvest of those careless words.
Having heard the whole story, he found that he now greatly admired Madame Shotz. With he
r little children to raise, the German widow was not about to openly live in sin with Laron, reviled by the community, an embarrassment to the Boudreau family. And now that her oldest had come to an age of understanding, she was not even willing to continue the clandestine relationship of the past.
Laron must see that he could not have her. And he must turn once again to Aida Gaudet. Armand had deliberately sought her out on several occasions in the last couple of weeks. He had spoken at length about Laron's good qualities and what a fine husband he would make for her.
She remained vaguely noncommittal. And the gossip about Laron's activities in Bayou Blonde had not helped, he was certain.
"You sound as if you have been chosen as his protégé,'' Aida told him, speaking of the tradition of a man other than the would-be groom proposing to the bride.
"Laron is my dearest friend," Armand said. "I want him to be happy."
He only hoped that the words he spoke were the truth.
The day before he'd gone by to check on Orva Landry, and the old woman had shaken her head and pointed her finger at him accusingly.
"You stir and stir," she told him. "But you can't make a chicken from soup. Just let the pot boil and accept destiny as it comes."
Armand glanced behind him at his nephew, asleep on the moss pile, and his brother, steady at the pole.
Armand knew from his own experience what it was for two brothers to grow up without a father. Would Gaston and Pierre share that fate? He thought to himself that some destinies must be avoided in any way possible.
Swallowing his anxiety, he purposely concentrated on the peace and beauty that surrounded him. There was almost no breeze upon the water. The occasional plop of a fish or splash of a turtle were the only sounds except for the gentle wake of their own pirogue. The morning had been cool, almost chill.
And there was a bite to the air and a fragrance in it that said winter was close.
All up and down the banks the verdant greens of summer grass and trees were giving way to the muted browns, pale yellows, and occasional vibrant splash of fall orange.
Winter was coming and winter was a good time for Acadians. There was little work and much time spent in frolic and family gatherings.